


Invisible

by Chryselis



Category: Aldnoah.Zero (Anime)
Genre: Denial, M/M, Masturbation, Suffering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-03-29 01:25:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3877081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryselis/pseuds/Chryselis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harklight is adamant that being invisible just makes him good at his job, until he starts witnessing parts of Slaine Troyard's life he'd never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do you know I'm here?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yasumii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yasumii/gifts).



> My first ever published fic, inspired by and dedicated to my fellow rotten fangirl (http://yasumiiii.tumblr.com/ for beautiful A/Z spam). Here's to our frustration over Aldnoah's beautiful characters suffering at the hand of awful writing.

A good servant should be indispensable. So indispensable that his presence is unnoticed, second nature even, just another well-oiled cog in the machine of his master’s ambition. Carrying out orders before they are uttered, meeting every demand of his position without complaint or remorse. A good servant, Harklight thought, should be indispensable yet invisible. And that he was.

Slaine Troyard was grateful to have a subordinate like Harklight, someone he could trust – or at the very least rely on – in the dangerous game of politics he was playing. The count made this apparent through the importance of the tasks he assigned, and by never raising a hand against the one who so faithfully stood by his side. Harklight knew not all Versian counts were so kind, as he had heard rumours of the treatment his own master had endured under the late Cruhteo. Not that he dared to indulge in such foul gossip and assumptions, no matter their veracity.

At first, Harklight found contentment in supporting his count’s vision of a new world and sharing in his ideals, fulfilled by the infectious determination that radiated from the young Terran whenever he made a move towards his greater goal. For a while, the humble servant was indeed content just being his reliable shadow. But as he came to realise the weight the young lord carried on his shoulders, Harklight gradually became more involved in his position. Shadowing a precocious man like Slaine Troyard was a demanding task. A tiring and difficult job that involved overseeing a busy agenda, complicated logistics, and a web of political relations complicated by the Terran’s ambiguous position as a foreigner to his men and a betrayer to his homeland. Harklight was further exasperated by the fact that his master assumed this position so proudly, standing alone to fight the currents that were threatening to drown him from all directions. At times he felt like he was standing by a stubborn child, rather than a knight or politician, kicking and screaming for the world to notice and hear his cries. And so, although he may not have been qualified to understand the solemn determination and desperate loneliness that enveloped his lord, Harklight resolved to soften whatever aspects of Slaine Troyard’s daily life he could.

However, it would be unwise to infer that this decision was born from any emphatic inclination to nurture or heal. It was instead an extremely shrewd understanding of what his job entailed that led Harklight to study his master’s character so profoundly. Harklight was not an emotional man, and if anything his military training taught him emotions were a barrier to efficient and rational decision making. There is no room for compassion in the heat of the war room, and not a second for regret in the cockpit of a kataphrakt. By extension of logic, there was no place for disorder or discomfort in the life of a military leader. A military operation isn’t solely composed of the victories and losses on the battlefield, it depends entirely on the constitution of its leaders and the morale of its soldiers. From the corner of an office, behind a tablet or coms screen, hovering by a shoulder, Harklight catalogued preferences, facial expressions, concerns, triumphs and the physical condition of his superior, each observation leading to a logical reaction.

Making himself invisible was also a way of keeping emotions in check while focusing on the duties at hand. If he let his heart wander, his mind would falter. Harklight saw how other men of his rank pined after appreciation, like small puppies sprawled at their master’s feet hoping to receive scraps from the table. Many commented on his own efficiency with derision, accusing him of the very behaviour he saw in each and every one of them. More than once he had been heckled while returning to his own quarters in late hours of the night, yet the shouts and jeering whispers never phased him.

“T _erran sympathiser!”_  
“Lapdog, scum lover!”  
_“Oh Lord Troyard, May I please kiss your feet Lord Troyard?”_

He smirked recalling some of the more recent insults thrown at him. Harklight’s self-worth was anchored in long term goals, not short term gratification. If that meant aligning his own identity with the goals of another, that was a small price to pay – not that it came at any real price, as his stoic nature corresponded the role perfectly. The petty disdain only served to steel his resolve and admiration for his master, who had been subjected to far worse conditions and still succeeded against all odds.

Snapping from contemplation, the servant pushed open the door to his lord’s office.

“Lord Troyard, I’m afraid you’re working too late again.” While very matter of fact, his tone was also a little indignant out of exasperation. A tuft of blonde hair stirred on the surface of the desk, the darkness of which emphasised Slaine Troyard’s worn and pale face. In a sense it was a bizarre sight, like a teenage boy trying on his father’s uniform and falling asleep waiting for him to come home - although it was precisely the absence of a father that had pushed Lord Troyard into such a position.

“Oh, it’s you Harklight…” The young count trailed off, clearly unable to focus from exhaustion. He scrambled, grabbing at the papers on his desk that had been displaced after falling asleep on them.

“I was just…”  
Harklight immediately interjected.  
“Milord, please allow me to escort you to your chambers.”  
The count hesitated for a second, then bowed his head in resignation.  
“I suppose you’re right, nothing is going to be achieved at this hour. Will you see to sorting these reports before I return tomorrow morning?”  
“Of course, Lord Troyard.”

Silently, albeit a little clumsily, the small frame rose from its engulfing chair and ambled across the room, lightly touching the adjutant’s arm in gratitude as he passed. Harklight allowed himself a small reassuring smile and promptly followed, making sure to maintain a few steps between the two of them at all times. Once they arrived at the count’s private quarters, the older man stood by the door waiting to be dismissed. Forgetting his presence, the tired blonde made his way to the centre of the room and started removing his uniform. No matter how many times he took in the bright scars and welts scattered across the boy’s body, Harklight couldn’t help but shudder at the disfiguration inflicted on what should be a strong and taught frame. The moment Slaine Troyard slipped off his uniform it was as if a wave of anguish washed over him, casting away the composure and calm assurance usually on display to the outside world. He slumped, lazily throwing down his jacket, then his shirt, and finally struggled to pull down the fitted trousers clinging to his thin legs. Harklight might not have believed in mixing feelings with work, but a glimpse of Slaine Troyard’s scarred and damaged body was enough to remind anyone of the value of individual life and integrity amidst the madness of war. He watched the boy – because in these moments he really was a boy, hurt and tired and alone – and felt a pang of guilt. This wasn’t the first time he saw Lord Troyard get undressed, nor was it the first time he stopped himself from wondering about the scars. But each time it happened, he felt increasingly closer to an intimate moment he wasn’t intended to witness. In fact, no one deserved to witness this. No one should be allowed so close to this much pain for fear of causing more. Yet each time his Lord Slaine returned with an injury that needed seeing to, or desired to soothe aching bones with a warm bath, or like tonight simply couldn’t prioritise himself enough to reach his bed in a conscious state, Harklight was there to ensure no more harm was done to him. There was a certain bond, an unspoken agreement between the two men that Harklight would never ask, because Slaine would never want to tell. They worked together towards a shared goal, never stopping to consider any further implications of their actions. There simply were none.

“Milord”, whispered Harklight, breaking from his thoughts. He had yet to be dismissed and his own focus was ebbing, so he was anxious to sort those remaining reports. Now on his bed, Slaine Troyard sleepily muttered a few words, nothing that could be discerned clearly. Harklight picked up the discarded uniform, folded it neatly and placed it on a chair before exiting the room, quietly closing the door without so much as a glance back to the figure on the bed.

In the end, it was definitely preferable for Harklight to stay indispensable, yet invisible.


	2. Do you not see what I see?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harklight remembers that he's human after all.

Harklight had returned to his master’s office in order to organise the relinquished reports. It was unusual for his dedicated employer to abandon unfinished business without a fight, which meant a particular care and kindness found its way down through his fingertips as he picked up where the work was last left off. Gently lifting up files, lightly brushing through their indexes, arranging together friendly pages to reassuringly return them home. Had someone walked in, they would’ve witnessed a grown man smiling gingerly at a pile of paperwork and questioned either the paper’s contents or the man’s sanity. But for someone so unwaveringly committed and married to their duty, this kind of obliquely expressed emotion was somewhat of a creature comfort. It was inappropriate for a servant to dare to solicit feelings or attention from his superior by brashly exhibiting his own, which led him to reserve what little expressiveness he allowed himself to moments of solitary toil. And so, as in many aspects of his life, Harklight chose to allow a side of himself to remain hidden.

Feeling suddenly lightheaded, he dared to sit for a moment. Although he knew his lord never cared for differentiating himself from lower ranked soldiers, a brisk shiver ran down his spine as he attempted to relax his tense body in the count’s chair. He wondered how Lord Troyard perceived him from here, or if he even noticed him at all. In any case, the new perspective was comforting. Indeed, working for Slaine Troyard had renewed Harklight’s appreciation for the importance of perspective. It amazed him that fellow soldiers failed to consider the implications of a Terran fighting for the Versian cause. Harklight had learnt a lot listening to his count’s musings, about the history of the human race, the conflicts on earth, the vast diversity and cultures that had thrived there for thousands of years – enough to make him deeply consider the meaning of his own allegiance and birthright. For the sake of sanity however, Harklight openly acknowledged his inability to consider the greater perspective of his own existence. That was something he reserved for the moment before his enemy landed a fatal hit. Yet, if it weren’t for Slaine Troyard, his world would still be painted in black and white. And for that, he was grateful. He relaxed further into the chair, tilting his head backwards and inhaling deeply.

Slaine Troyard.

A few seconds passed, the name ringing still in his head. Harklight released his captive breath in a drawn out sigh. The young man occupied such an important place in his mind that he seemed to think of little else nowadays. When had the focused soldier traded pragmatism for melancholy and idle contemplation?

Had he ever been so invested in his work before he was appointed under Lord Troyard?

Despite his high rank as an orbital knight, Harklight knew that his master had no place to go. Soon he might not even have anything left to hold him back, his military tactics burning bridges faster than he could build new ones. Any decision to bring him closer to his goals, regardless of the impact on his relationships and the people around him. This was why Harklight had begun to put his master before himself, in a vain attempt to cushion the blow of a life lost to a painful past and sacrificed for a brighter future. Harklight worried there would be nothing of his count left by the time the war was done. He stood by as the young count shed away layers of his humanity, aiming for something higher than his own existence. Was there anyone left who could save just a little piece of Slaine Troyard from the hungry jaws of sacrifice?

He stopped his thoughts in their tracks. His shoulders dropped as he sighed once more, head falling back against the edge of the chair. Something was contorting inside him, making itself known in the pit of his stomach; an ominous realisation he would have been able to identify had he not left his feelings locked in a box in the corner of his subconscious for so long. He didn’t realise that it was simply the revelation that after all the efforts he had employed to remain invisible, objective, and dedicated, he still needed to feel and have those feelings heard. He shifted his body in the chair, physical discomfort echoing his progressing emotional unease. His hands were becoming moist, so he removed his gloves and loosened the top button of his uniform.

The uniform.

He recalled seeing his master getting undressed just moments ago, the stark difference between his clothed lordly stature and the meek frame it enclosed still vivid. While he had long admired Slaine Troyard for his composure, it suddenly dawned on him how much of that image was sculpted by the uniform they wore. The strength of the uniform carrying him. The uniform conveying his fealty to Versian ideals. The uniform that belied the anguish of the boy within, holding him together, moulding desperation and anger into resolve and ambition.

Harklight couldn’t stop himself from thinking. His usual iron grip was loosening as he found himself reaching out to try and understand another human being, something he rarely did for fear of losing sight of himself in the chaotic throes of wartime existence. While he witnessed so many things, he truly understood nothing – at least when it came to Lord Troyard. He saw him standing alone gazing out into space at his home planet, struggling to force down even bare sustenance when it was forcibly brought to him, constantly shifting the collar of his uniform as if it was the grip of someone he was trying to escape. He knew the scars on his body, the deadness in his vacant eyes. There was the authoritarian tone the count reserved for the war room and the strangled sobs he had once overheard coming from his private quarters. Feeling lost in the depth that is caring for another human being, Harklight had focused on the importance of daily tasks and establishing a minimum of routine stability. It was in the small moments that his Lord seemed closest to breaking – or maybe he was already broken, piecing whatever was left of himself back together to keep going just one more day, and then another, in the hope that he would last long enough to see his work through. He gave so much to others, had so much taken from him, that the closer you got to Slaine Troyard the less of him there seemed to be. Was this what people called a martyr, or was this the picture Harklight chose to paint to sustain his own motivation?

His earlier gut instinct had spread throughout his body and was materialising into a concrete thought, edging closer to the forefront of his mind. Sleep was such a distant notion to Harklight in these unfamiliar reflections that there was nothing to stop the feeling from reaching his consciousness, although his fully functioning self would likely have had other plans for it. He realised that maybe – just maybe – he was only so invested in his work now because he became invested in the count’s fate first. He had sought to adjust the balance between the individual and the greater events at play. Tip the biased scales of fate just a little more in Lord Troyard’s favour. Making up for one sacrifice with another. And yet, try as he might to follow every footstep, he was still miles behind the one he vowed to stand so faithfully by.

Defeated, he let the realisation sink in. Slowly, he was changing. He wasn’t content just carrying out tasks and wordlessly supporting from the back row. He wanted to look Slaine Troyard in the eye and tell him:

_I see you hurting. I just want you to know I’m here for you._

And although this was in part a release, for Harklight it was something that could never see the light of day. It only reiterated what he had believed all along: lose control of your feelings, and you’ll lose sight of the greater perspective. As long as nothing changed he would keep fulfilling his duty and strive to bring this war to an end. Only after would he allow himself to grieve. So, the thought was filed away back in the box, and his body now told the mind that enough was enough, and it was time to rest. Exhausted from the introspective struggle, Harklight closed his eyes and fell straight to sleep where he sat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of introspective Harklight. Now you're a little better acquainted with how he feels in this fic, we can get down to the real business!


	3. Do you not want what I want?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we realise that characters who barely ever interact in the show are probably quite awkward around each other.

Dull, throbbing pain, muscles aching all over. Back curved and head lolling, as if hanging onto the neck by a thread. Crumpled uniform, ragged hair and a distinct odour of lingering yesterday. This awkward picture of discomfort was not how Harklight habitually woke up. The unfamiliar situation was accompanied by fog rolling through his mind, sleep timidly peeking over the fence of consciousness on light tiptoes, shyly calling out to him.

_Will you please stay with me just a few hours longer?_

No sounds, no alarm, not even cold bed sheets, nothing to distract him from the alluring invitation. Surely this wasn’t a condition to wake up in, surely there were a few more hours left, surely – vague sounds, were those footsteps? He drifted back off to sleep as he tried to picture the slim figure he imagined was attached to the subtle soles clashing with the hard floor. The image was somewhere close by yet so far away, as many dreams are. Twirling, gliding over the air, soft laughter, warm feelings and a homecoming. Those were things Harklight hoped to find in his sleep as he reached out to the vision, each breath it drew infusing colour and life, so real he could almost feel it on his face, share the muffled laughter, as the now materialised young man leaned in and whispered:

“Harklight, can you hear me?”

Startled, his neck automatically snapped up only for him to wince in pain, instantly wishing he could fall back to sleep and not have to deal with the reality of his position and the consequential soreness. Then came more laughter, this time totally unabashed and joyous.

“I can’t believe it, I never thought I’d see the day!”

An uncomfortable sleeping position was suddenly the least of his worries. There were many scenarios in which Harklight would’ve enjoyed seeing Slaine Troyard indulge in mundane amusement, but his own unkempt appearance and a professional slip up was obviously not one of them.

“Lord Troyard! I… I didn’t mean to –”

“Spending the night in my office, hm?” The flustered man’s superior leaned in, clearly revelling in having caught his dutiful subordinate unawares. “Fancying yourself in my position now are we? Oh Harklight, what shall I do if even my most trusted knight is plotting rebellion against me!”

His mind still grappling with sleep, nothing could stop Harklight from blushing and looking away in embarrassment, clenching his fists in frustration while the blonde smirked at him, awaiting retaliation. He quickly scrambled out of the huge chair and tried to readjust his uniform, fussily tugging at the sleeves and smoothing out creases. For once, he was utterly tongue tied. This dynamic was just too much to process for him. Although an expert in military damage control, he so seldom had any form of direct personal interaction with the count that this light-hearted banter pierced his pride far deeper than it was intended to. All he could do to counter this was remove himself from the situation as humbly as possible.

“I apologise for my condition Lord Troyard. It was not my intention to shirk my duty nor offend you. I understand if you feel the need to reprimand me.”

Although satisfied with his own response, it was clear that his master felt otherwise. Harklight immediately regretted banishing the young man’s laughter in favour of an all too serious frown.

“There’s no need to always be so formal.”

The curt reply belied the count’s change of demeanour, as he shifted from one foot to the other and crossed his arms. This was exactly why Harklight had a routine that he followed like clockwork, so his mind was always sharp and any distractions or deviations from schedule were eliminated to avoid these kinds of situations.

“Harklight, I only meant that it was nice to see a more human side of you for once. This is probably the first time I’ve ever seen you look anything less than perfect, and I know that’s because you’ve been working too hard picking up after me. I’m sorry. I forget that me working late means you work even later. I’ll do my best to not let it affect you too from now on.”

“Lord Troyard –”

Harklight’s mind raced as he went over possible answers to this strangely explicit apology. He did overwork himself and he knew it, but a huge part of the work was also dedicated to his lord not realising how much he was working. He was supposed to make things look easier, not remind them both of how worn down they were. He wanted to hang his head in shame and share everything that had been on his mind recently, all those thoughts that had kept him up and brought about this situation. To him this was a turning point, the recent bouts of introspection having opened the gate to a winding path away from his manicured garden where everything stood straight, right, and proper. It was the path of ‘want’ rather than ‘should’. On one hand, he knew he _should_ really give a generic response shifting all blame away from his master and onto himself, followed by a profuse apology and promise of better future performance. On the other, it felt as if the personal pointedness and thoughtfulness of his lord’s words were an opening. A temptation into this new path, where he _wanted_ to admit why the comments mattered so much, why being so contained and well put together was important for the both of them.

_Please don’t apologise. I’m sorry I let you down. I only want to be perfect so you have one less thing to worry about. This is who I am, and what I want to be for you. You deserve at least that, at least one person who truly cares and asks nothing in return. Or is this not what you want from me?_

But people do not change so easily, and today was not the day that Harklight would open up to Slaine Troyard. He did however allow himself a little attitude, which he often did in his lord’s stead towards gossiping lower ranked soldiers.

“It was perhaps a little fanciful of me to spend the night in your position, but I have to say I don’t envy you from the way my back is feeling right now. You can leave your fears of rebellion to rest until you get a better chair.”

Perhaps humour wasn’t his forte. As Slaine Troyard’s face lit up once more and he burst into laughter, he posited that it probably was just the thought that counts.

“Well, regardless,” the count caught his breath and moved around the desk, appraising Harklight’s work, “everything’s is perfect, apart from the fact that you forgot to look after yourself.”

“Lord Troyard, please tell me you appreciate the hypocrisy of that statement.” A cheeky smile crept onto the corner of Harklight’s mouth as he grew more daring with his replies.

“Touché. And I hope you appreciate that another count might have dismissed you for impudence after making a comment like that, or worse.” Harklight recoiled internally, his cheeks flushing far too easily. Had he overstepped the mark, or was his master acknowledging that their relationship was more forgiving, closer than that of their counterparts? Conversation is a skill as any other, and Harklight was frightfully rusty. What he needed to realise was that while their words were critical, they weren’t intended to wound. Dialogue between these two men was like sparring, each tentatively seeking out the other with the tip of a practice sword. Probing, testing limits. Since neither would open up their only method of close interaction was to jab. No one out to win, but neither having enough skill to bring the match to a close. However, this also meant that neither knew how their words were affecting the other, and so for fear of going too far, the exchange had to come to a halt.

“Anyway, you had better take some time to freshen up. We have a conference later and I can’t have you looking like this or falling asleep there too.”

“Of course my lord, thank you.” Harklight promptly turned on his heels and headed towards the door, a nebulous mixture of relief and disappointment ready to be exhaled as soon as he left the office – but Slaine Troyard wasn’t about to let him off so easily.

“By the way Harklight, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you direct facial expressions at me before. I thought you only reserved snarky smiles for our enemies. Maybe you should let yourself go in front of me too once in a while.”

And there was the final blow. Harklight stiffened and paused for a second before continuing on his way, defeated. Once in the corridor his pace and breathing subconsciously quickened, as he replayed the event in his mind. The downside of rarely addressing his emotions had made him, quite contrary to his expectations, are lot more sensitive than he believed he should be. He was so used to erasing himself, so used to making himself second to another, that this simple connection felt like something entirely new. Of course he’d had friends growing up, he had a family back on Vers. But he had put all that aside to serve the military, and then completely left it behind when he decided to dedicate himself to count Troyard. If there was one person that could make him reconsider his convictions and choices, the person he wanted to be, or what he thought was right, it was Slaine Troyard. But he had made the leap already, and he wasn’t ready to see himself in another light yet, to have to bear the weight of human attachment while at war, to have to reassess his role within this huge mess. That was why following his master suited him so well – but that façade only held up as long as the one it was put up for didn’t question it, and now he had. Not only that, but he had directly addressed it. Harklight had no idea the count knew he was glowering behind him while the young man stood strong and dignified, or that he made up for his lord’s grace and countenance by shooting glares and intimidating smirks at impudent knaves from the shadows. And yet… He saw but didn’t disapprove. He saw Harklight and didn’t dismiss his existence. He had invited him to share more emotion in his presence. This was problematic. Despite the fact that he did feel them, Harklight still fundamentally believed that emotions were dangerous. They paved the rocky path of want, leading away from the manufactured but efficient and smooth road of should. And now he stood at their crossroad.

In the end, all Harklight needed was to accept that part of him will always want something more. Although he put up a polished mask for everyone to see for the sake of his work, somewhere along the way, the one he lied to the most had become himself.


	4. Do you fear what I fear?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harklight experiences a series of unfortunate events.

Harklight hurried back to his quarters, desperate for a shower and a fresh uniform. The air around him was suddenly suffocating. The weight of possibility crushed his carefully built yet despairingly fragile edifice of duty and subordination and his body struggled to keep up with the frantic efforts of the mind. Things were spiralling out of control, he could only feel himself inhaling exhaling inhaling too fast too heavily too much too – he’d arrived at his bunk and propped himself up against the doorframe, trying to regain a grip on reality, slowing his breathing, focusing on the breathing and nothing else, hailing back a tide of calm. He barely felt his fingers as he punched in the entry code. Shaking hands fumbled over buttons, boots were kicked off, trousers somehow finding their way to the floor as he struggled to banish the thoughts jeopardising his sense of identity.

When control is absolute, when there is no room for failure, one tiny cog jamming can bring all operations down to a halt, and Harklight had spent too long making sure he was nothing more than a slickly oiled part of Slaine Troyard’s political war machine to deal with committing a personal blunder. It was not an option, and the price of perfection was a heavy fall.

Haggard and drained, he leant against the wall of the shower. He didn’t dare close his eyes in case it consolidated the arrival of the throbbing pain in his head. Instead he stared at the nozzle and controls, vaguely wishing he’d had the sense to run the water until warm before getting in. His body was trembling all over, as if it was trying to shake its tingling limbs awake. Never had he been so grateful to have access to a private bathroom, a select privilege in the military. The tight cubicle was a liberating moment of freedom and vulnerability, small in size but infinite in the elusive privacy it allowed.

_Why? Why is this so difficult? Why do I care so much? Why am I so ashamed?_

After all, his work was finished before he fell asleep. He hadn’t slacked off on the job. He also understood mistakes happened - if anything he spent the majority of his time fixing those made by others and making sure no one realised a mistake was even made. Rather than the particular blunder in question, Harklight was struggling with the realisation that the person he idolised so much and put his own life aside for had seen a weakness in him. Big or small, consequential or not, it didn’t matter. Any weakness put too much of a distance between Harklight and the young man he had placed on so high a pedestal. The panic he felt was exasperated by the wall he’d built to contain his feelings, as the wedge planted by Slaine Troyard’s earlier remarks created the crack that broke the dam and brought an ocean of feelings crashing down. He sighed and ran his hands through his hair, desperate to regain his composure.

_“Maybe you should let yourself go in front of me too once in a while.”_

Harklight grasped at his hair in frustration, nails scraping against his scalp, tension causing his body to contort. The count’s dejected tone still rang clear and sharp in his mind. How could he let go? Letting go meant vulnerability, it meant an opening for all he was guarding against, it meant risking losing the tenacity needed to stand against the blows of war.

 Harklight finally had the sense to turn on the shower, ready to relinquish the final ounce of denial he had clasped close to his heart. Breathing in deeply, he closed his eyes and let water run down his face. Normally he would have braced himself for the moment to come, but today it seemed as if all he thought was right was wrong. And so, once the mask was washed away, he let himself be. 

And all that was left was pain. 

He couldn’t help but laugh. What else would there be? 

\-----

 As the day passed the solider resumed work and fell back into his usual mechanical rhythm. Further encounters with his lord came without any mishaps and Harklight’s heavy mood brightened. He had, as usual, successfully banished his worries by focusing on whatever task at hand. Maintenance checks, conference minutes, anything that solidified his place in an external system and distracted him from the tangled feelings in his mind. He found himself looking forward to, rather than fearing, serving the count at mealtime. Like every aspect of Slaine Troyard’s life, Harklight knew that frequenting the dining room customary of a count’s position was a bitter affair due to the circumstances surrounding the Terran’s rise to power. There was no joy to be found in the luxuries accompanying the post, and their places around the lavish table were one of the many movements of the political fugue they played. Harklight, tall and subservient, would relay whatever food the kitchen prepared that day to the count, modest yet radiating charisma so as not to be engulfed by the garish – at least by Harklight’s standards – surroundings. Despite this, standing by his lord at mealtimes was one of his favourite tasks, especially on days where the count ate willingly and without any protest. Short moments of reprieve were terribly rare for the both of them, and Harklight enjoyed the comforting scene that was Slaine Troyard partaking in one of the most banal and basic activities known to man: eating. Furthermore, the food he served was often entirely foreign to him. Although it was no out of the ordinary experience for a Terran, Harklight projected his own curiosity and excitement over the varied colours and textures onto his master, hoping that a diet of something other than Versian krill brought the satisfaction he imagined. 

This meal’s plate consisted of something he knew was meat from a type of Terran animal, and small white shards he’d learned to call “rice”. Covering it was a glistening liquid he now recognised as “sauce”, whose odour was so fragrant compared to the rest of the meal he wondered if it served to make the other strange elements palatable. Lord Troyard had once explained to him that this was relatively simple fare by Terran standards but he lacked the knowledge and experience to see it as such. The thought of maybe one day eating such alien food made his eyes sparkle in wonder and excitement – not that he believed that day would ever come. Perhaps if it did his resolve would make way for apprehension when directly faced with the possibility that this food was safe for him to eat. 

Slaine Troyard paused, fork barely an inch from his his lips, and looked up to Harklight standing a few feet away from him. Harklight straightened, realising he’d been caught staring. The younger man cocked his head to the side slightly and smiled, still holding his fork in the air. 

“Harklight, I just realised – have you ever wanted to try chicken?” 

The casual tone of the invitation couldn’t even pass as a feeble attempt to conceal the weight this question carried. Harklight couldn’t help but notice that the count licked a small speck off his lip before lowering the fork back down to his plate. As if his day hadn’t already been stressful enough.

 “Come on, it’s quite nice, you’ll be surprised!”

 Of course, his hesitation must come across as fear of the unknown. But which unknown was he really referring to? Did the count not realise what he was asking, was this a test to see if he dared to break into the confines of familiarity? Could Lord Troyard be seeking an opportunity to reprimand him for his earlier joke? Strengthening his resolve, he recalled his lord’s request for him to loosen up. This was probably a manufactured opportunity, but it was an opportunity nonetheless. Although partaking in a privilege reserved for higher ranks was an absolute taboo, the prospect of turning down a generous offer from his commanding superior and object of highest admiration was even more out of the question. 

“Lord Troyard, if you’d be so kind, I’ve always wondered what Terran food tastes like.” 

The young man’s face lit up, for a fraction of a second, before resuming an air of formality. He stood up, gestured to another servant to bring out an extra plate and then drew out a chair for Harklight, reversing their roles in an almost comical manner. Harklight slowly edged towards the seat, each step harder to take than the last. Someone rushed in front of him, frantically arranging a new table setting, inadvertently buying him time to work his shaky limbs. Finally he arrived, only to flinch when his legs touched the luscious fabric of the chair, discomfort painting his face red. The count returned to his original place directly opposite Harklight and waited expectantly. 

Harklight was trying his hardest not to openly panic. Side by side, sitting on the same level, at the same table as a count. He worked so hard to maintain appropriate respectful distance from his lord, only to have it shattered by one simple gesture. What would his relationship with Slaine Troyard become if they allowed themselves to close that distance? It was already no longer that of a superior and his removed subordinate. None of his models of relationships or past experiences could help him in this situation, guide him as to what kind of connection his lord wanted to make. It was no childhood friendship, no teenage romance, no steadfast brotherhood, and certainly no comforting hand to wipe away a tear.

 Up until this moment, it was a matter of support and survival. A matter of respect. It dawned on Harklight that to conceal all emotion was to deny the basic human connection, which he had mistakenly done in an attempt to lessen the weight on the count’s shoulders. And here was Slaine Troyard, offering to share a private moment in recognition of the time they spent together. This bond between them was something to find solace in and instead he had selfishly kept himself at arm’s length, denying the bad but also the good. By refusing to share any of his own baggage, he had been unable to accept any of Slaine Troyard’s in return. He could be more responsive, more openly supportive, and more personal.

 Harklight attempted to relax a little and forced an unintentionally awkward smile onto his face. He noticed a plate of food had somehow appeared in front of him and he wondered if this was how invisible he was to others. His stomach sunk at the thought now that he experienced it himself. There were more pressing matters at hand however, as Lord Troyard reminded him by subtly clearing his throat, eager eyes locked in his direction, waiting for Harklight to lead. As it turned out, the alien food was far from being the greatest unknown in the equation. If anything it provided a pleasant distraction from the inquisitive stare across the table, appraising him, looking right through him, searching for something Harklight feared wasn’t there. Whatever it was, he hoped his lord could find it, for disappointing him again would be a blow too hard to take. He gracefully prodded a piece of the white meat onto his fork, trying to ignore the count’s mouth opening slightly, drawing in a breath in anticipation of Harklight’s first taste of his homeland.

 The fork passed lips to introduce a strange new texture, tongue rolling the unfamiliar morsel to the back of his mouth, unsure how to proceed. Unfortunately for Harklight, his body’s reaction to the intruder was not amicable. His throat closed up, protesting the bizarre taste, and it took every ounce of self-control he could muster not to wretch and spit out the remains of what he figured must be a monstrous bird. Slowly, agonisingly, he chewed and swallowed his first bite, trying to ignore the overpowering taste filling his mouth, his nose, all of his senses. After an audible gulp he finally acknowledged the attentive audience across from him.

 “T-that was surprisingly delicious.”

 White lies never hurt anyone right?

 “Really Harklight? I’m impressed, it normally takes Versians quite some time to get accustomed to such new tastes! You must be particularly resilient!”

 How wrong he was. He sunk his head in shame, hoping the count hadn’t seen through the lie. Watching the young man tuck in to his food once more, Harklight felt utterly embarrassed by his reaction to the count’s gift. Taking extra care to keep down his revulsion, he mimicked his lord’s movements, swallowing another painful mouthful at a time. At least Lord Troyard was content. At least Lord Troyard was eating. Those things were far more important than any unpleasant taste he had to put up with. Still, it was difficult for Harklight to totally control the emotions flickering across his face. And as he was concentrating on eating and getting through the experience with as much grace as possible, he failed to notice Slaine Troyard delicately place a napkin to his mouth and turn away for a few seconds, hiding the smile that had crept onto his face while watching Harklight eat.

 The count seasoned their meal with a few remarks on current plans and concerns regarding frail relationships with particularly problematic counts, and Harklight could only bring himself to dutifully nod and smile in approval. The moment their plates were both clean, and before Harklight had time to worry about how to behave from here on, count Troyard shrewdly addressed the situation.

 “Harklight, please see to clearing everything up. And make sure you resupply my wardrobe with clean uniforms before clocking off.”

 Harklight was caught off guard, the sudden transition from equal back to subordinate snatching his carefully composed smile away.

 “Yes Lord Troyard, I’ll get right to it.”

 The order put an end to the pleasantries. They each knew their place, and the count was right to make sure boundaries stayed firmly anchored between them. It was exactly as Harklight had feared, reading into a situation had only brought him more anguish and pain. How arrogant of him to entertain the thought that their relationship was anything more than functional and pragmatic – it wouldn’t even have mattered if he hadn’t let his emotions rise to the surface again. Simply obey your superior, and do your best to please him. Mask back on, he reminded himself of his prime rule for survival:

  _It’s not your place to care. It’s not your place to feel. It’s not your place to want, nor to need._

 Harklight was quick to fall back in line, rising fast enough to tend to the count’s chair as he stood up. Slaine Troyard left the room the same way he entered, cold and composed, leaving a frozen Harklight in his wake. Harklight maintained his courteous bow a few seconds longer, in part to conceal the nervous twitch of his eyebrow, but also to preserve the scene before curtains closed on it in his memory. Consciousness slipped away from him as robotic autopilot took over, self-preservation shutting down all his thoughts and feelings in order to keep going.

 -----

 Once clear of the oppressive dining room, Harklight saw Princess Lemrina passing by in the corridor. He jolted back to reality in apprehension of a conversation.

 “Oh Harklight!” The princess seemed happy to see him, although he suspected there was an underlying cause other than his simple presence. “Would you accompany me for a few moments? I’m on my way back to my quarters.” She asked sweetly, but there was no real choice in the matter. Harklight ran through his mental checklist before confirming his availability, wary of the potential for more blunders, taking long enough to irk the small figure in front of him. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to match Princess Lemrina’s entertaining yet scathing quips in this condition and he was already falling short of the reaction she expected.

 “Do I have to inform Slaine that you’re now refusing to obey your superiors?”

 The twinkle in her eye made it obvious that she was teasing, but the intent to wound was real. Although he had a lot of respect and compassion for Princess Lemrina’s position, Harklight wasn’t eager to liken her demure manner to some beautiful flower. He pictured her more as a thorny bush growing enticing but poisonous berries.

 She then offered tentatively: “I’m just asking for a little company.”

 And like a thorny flower, she lived in complete isolation. Her loneliness was his weak spot, and she knew full well Harklight could be counted on to indulge her longing. He chose to remain invisible, but she did not. Singled out at birth, she spent so much of her life in the shadows of others that it sometimes made him reconsider his own choice to stand in one too. What point was there to an existence no one would acknowledge?

 “It’ll be my pleasure to accompany you my lady,” he responded politely.

 “Thank you,” Lemrina cocked her head inquisitively and continued, “I’ve been worried about you Harklight, after hearing that you fell asleep while working… Is something wrong? Slaine told me it’s so unlike you to make a mistake!”

 He had been slow on the draw too many times since his wake-up call and this was another painful blow. In his normal state he would never step a foot out of line, but bitterness was starting to infect his worn down mind. His lord offering comments to him personally was one thing, but hearing impressions of a private moment second hand was another.

 “I appreciate your concern Princess. Please rest assured that it was a small mishap and shall in no way hinder me from watching over Lord Troyard in your stead.” Although his face softened into a warm smile, his body remained tense and straight. Lemrina chuckled at the contradictory sight.

“Don’t remind me,” she sighed sadly. “You know I envy the amount of time you spend at his side.”

 Harklight had nothing to add to her statement; he could tell that she wanted to discuss matters he did not share with himself, let alone trusted friends, and even less with scheming politicians. Princess Lemrina flittered between both of these categories. This conversation seemed to be leaning towards the latter. He chose to stay silent and allowed her to continue. 

“It feels like I don’t have any kind of real relationship with him sometimes, that I’m no more than a pawn in his plans. Don't you feel the same?” 

It was almost as if she was engineering her comments to aggravate him in every way possible. 

“Surely it’s even worse for you. You dedicate so much of yourself to him and although he keeps you at his side, he gives nothing back in return. Have you ever wished you could be closer to Slaine or is all this really just work for you?” The sugary sweet tone was a pointed insult, but her remarks were scarily pertinent. 

“Princess Lemrina, I don’t believe this conversation is appropriate. It is not acceptable for a soldier to gossip about his superiors.” 

“Well maybe you should be more honest. I don’t see why you cling to these airs in times of war.” She stopped and turned to look at Harklight and he returned her stare with equal intensity. “Believe me Harklight, I am in a rightful position to loathe formalities. I’ve even forsaken my own identity for their purpose. In that sense, aren’t you and I identical?”

 Harklight thought she was right, although he would never admit it. He hastened, they were still a ways from her room and this conversation could not end soon enough. This did not escape Lemrina, who shifted in her wheelchair, frustrated Harklight wouldn’t take her bait – not that he understood what she was fishing for. Their verbal spar accelerated accordingly.

 “I’m happy Slaine’s plans are coming to fruition. But I do wonder if he’ll still have any use for us when he succeeds.” 

“Maybe these thoughts would cease to trouble you if you could focus on the greater picture, Princess.” 

Lemrina laughed, the sound cutting through the tension in the air between them.

“You say that, but sometimes I think you’re far more invested than I am. I’m hurt, it seems you care for Slaine even more than I do, putting aside your feelings for his sake like that.” 

“It’s not the same thing. You’re a woman. I don’t consider my position as personally as you do.” 

Harklight’s inflexible tendencies extended beyond his own feelings. In his tidy world of efficiency, it was much easier to deny emotional complexity and arrange people into neat categories, as unrealistic as it was. Harklight saw women as the more emotional beast, and he was loathe to compare his relationship with Slaine Troyard to Princess Lemrina’s. The Princess’ emotional needs made her jealous and possessive, which in turn made her dangerous. He wasn’t sure if she wanted someone to relate to her or if she was trying to get information out of him. There was no need to give her any reason to make him her enemy, yet he didn’t wish to indulge her either. She laughed again and Harklight thought she must derive some sort of twisted satisfaction from their exchange.

 “Men are not immune to having feelings Harklight. There’s no need to be so defensive.” 

“I apologise for my lack of manners Princess, I seem to have more on my mind than usual.” 

“Hmm, really now? What could have changed?” Lemrina’s eyes widened in amusement. Harklight’s narrowed. “It sounds to me like you’re simply looking at things differently. Maybe that’s why you’re struggling with your work.”

 “Perhaps. I believe we should simply do our best to support Lord Troyard in this difficult time.” 

They finally arrived at her room and the conversation came to a halt. 

\-----

 One last task and Harklight would be free from this waking hell. The little flexibility in his schedule was arranged so that his shifts ended just after the swap over for lower ranked soldiers. Life in the base’s corridors lulled temporarily while people drifted off to sleep or dragged themselves back to bright eyed reality. This offbeat moment usually allowed him a different perspective on the base’s routine that he found conducive to efficient planning and internal calibration, sifting through tasks accomplished and outstanding to prime his mind for rest. Today however, it was the vehicle for more unsettling and murky contemplation. 

Harklight believed ego and desperate need for affirmation prevented mankind from progressing beyond the shackles of its base instinct. This was why he had been so easily entranced by the bright fury of Slaine Troyard’s ideals. He followed in his shadow fuelled by a cause greater than his own self, a cause that allowed him to forget his own shortcomings and limitations. You could say Harklight attempted to deny the responsibility of his own nature, burying it deep under unwavering obedience and loyalty. In his eyes, emotions distorted the little objective reality humans could glimpse into a mirror of self-gratification, praising the comfort of the individual over the suffering of many.

 Count Troyard had set aside their reality in order to share his meal, perhaps to feel some genuine form of intimacy for the first time in months. Princess Lemrina had shared her problems, her doubts, her fears, in order to alleviate her loneliness. Yet both of these encounters left Harklight under more unsolicited pressure, which he couldn’t help but perceive as selfish. While he lived to shoulder his lord’s burden, he couldn’t understand the benefit in complicating their dynamic into something outside the boundary of authority, no matter how good the intention was. Princess Lemrina’s suffering was a stark reminder of what happened between two people with different expectations, and Harklight used distance as a way to shield the count from further aggravation.

There was no response at Lord Troyard’s door nor was it locked, so Harklight let himself in to deliver the uniforms, hoping the count wasn’t still working late. Light escaping through the opening of the bathroom door dispelled that worry, as he noticed Slaine Troyard’s shadow cast over the bed. The condition of the young man’s private quarters was a sad reflection of the little time he could spare for himself. The décor clinical and minimalist, there were no mementos, no comforts, nothing more than what was necessary for survival. It was also the only emptiness Harklight swore not to compensate for, at least not past the boundary of the folded or freshly pressed uniforms. He discretely made his way to the wardrobe without so much as a glance upward, the sound of running water from the shower covering his footsteps. The familiar path was wrought with memories of insights into his master’s private life that Harklight would rather not have witnessed. The curled up sleeping figure of a defenceless boy, muffled weeping and the sound of emotion chocked back into a body on the verge of breaking, the scars of his past telling more than anyone needed to know. Whenever he entered this room Harklight was invisible, an intruder in Slaine Troyard’s most fragile and vulnerable moments.

 Before he could make his way out Harklight heard a thud and the quivering of a glass panel. Not daring to look directly into the bathroom he referred to the shadow on the ground, which had shrunk and distorted - had his master slipped and hurt himself? Or was he hunched over out of exhaustion? He decided to stand by, senses on alert. If he hadn’t lost the habit of announcing his presence, Harklight might have called out to his lord, but he didn’t want to inconvenience the count and make him lose face unless it was completely necessary.

 Another sound followed, this time the count’s voice, although the emotion in it was unclear – was it discomfort, a cry for help? It sounded strained, pained even – Harklight took a deep breath and assessed the situation before drawing any conclusions. Lord Troyard had completed all of his urgent tasks, even taken the time to eat a meal a few hours ago. Nothing in the room was out of place, his clothes were where he usually kicked them off, and all in all there were no signs of unusual activity. Nothing indicated that he should stay and intervene until - 

“H-Harklight…!” 

Slaine Troyard called out his name, but this was not a summons, nor a greeting. Not an order, nor a request either. 

Harklight stood at the edge of the largest precipice that defines relationships. His eyes glued shut, entire being slammed hard against the brakes of denial, refusing to acknowledge the reality of what he could hear and the activity soliciting it. Worry, confusion, fear, anger – at his master, at himself, at everything that had worked together to put him in this position – converged into one resounding thought:

  _This can’t be happening. Please, tell me this isn’t happening._  

Again erratic breath, a high pitched, soft and desperate tone. 

The usual answers and rational decisions Harklight was trained to identify failed to materialise. Everything blurred. Each attempt to leave was countered by more sounds from the shower, injecting hesitation into the moment. Leaving would solidify denial, once clear of the room Harklight could easily file the memory in the deep confines of his mind, away with the many secrets and emotions it wasn’t his place to address. But could he really? How would he be able to look his master in the eye again? Although fear of the consequences prevented him from moving on and just putting the situation behind him, a mixture of morbid curiosity and disbelief planted the vain hope that he had misheard or that his master genuinely needed his help, shackling him to the spot. After all, how would he feel if he left and found out later that Lord Troyard had injured himself? The count must have heard the door open and realised it was Harklight, so when something happened he reflexively called out to him. There was a logical explanation to everything, no need to get carried away with outlandish thoughts. Harklight inched towards the bathroom and craned his neck enough to catch a glimpse of Slaine Troyard’s curved back, one arm propping him up against the wall and the other leading down between his legs, his hand wrapped around – 

_That’s it. This is totally inappropriate. I have to leave. Why did I even dare to check? But why, why would he say my name? While… that… No. This is disgusting. I need to stop thinking, I need to get out. I shouldn’t be here. Did I hear wrong? Why would he, over another man? This is wrong. Everything is going wrong. Lord Troyard, why?_  

Harklight lurched toward the door, head spinning. But he stopped, terrified that the sound of releasing compressed air would reveal him. He was trapped in a cage of conflicting emotions, unable to reach even the most obvious decision. As he stood paralysed, he heard, no, listened to the echo of desire resonating from the neighbouring room. 

Lord Troyard’s voice grew louder, heavy panting in rhythm with the frantic sound of water sliding and splashing against skin on skin. His short, sharp breaths intertwined with frustrated whispers. 

“Ah, Harklight, please!” 

The count’s moans sunk into guttural groans, whimpering need melting into carnal lust. The more Harklight listened, the more he forgot where he was and who he was listening to. A coping mechanism perhaps, but also a telling sign of his own sexual frustration, pent up and looking for any excuse to surface. His heart beat faster, temperature rising as his mind reeled further out of control, urgently seeking indulgent release. 

_No, no I can’t. I shouldn’t. But it’s been so long. I haven’t… Felt anything in so long. This is just a physical need. This is out of my control, out of his control even. I can’t help it. It’s a natural human reaction to stimulation. This isn’t about him. This would happen to anyone. This is just because I haven’t, in weeks, nor thought about a woman, or anything –_

 Harklight was sweating, his clammy hands making him squirm. Breathing became harder, faster; he was unable to stop focusing on the sounds coming from the shower. He moaned inadvertently as he felt pressure building in his trousers and clasped a hand to his mouth in shock. Recoiling, disgusted at his own reaction, he finally came back to reality and opened his eyes, only to see the count finished and facing his direction through the open door. Harklight bolted out in panic, preceding a last damning whisper from Slaine Troyard: 

“…Harklight?”

 Rushing back to his quarters, inconvenienced and distraught, his perception entirely warped and off balance, Harklight prayed that the overwhelming shame and embarrassment he felt would somehow fade away with him into invisibility.


	5. Do you hear what I hear?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, much to his own dismay, Harklight has an erection. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In utter shock I noticed a few days ago it'd been over a year since I updated this. I'M STILL WORKING ON IT this fic is not dead. Have a chapter of more intense internal conflict before we move on to some real drama.

One of the first things Harklight had noticed upon being upgraded to orbital knights' private quarters was a tiny stain on the ceiling, inconspicuously residing in a dark corner. Although small, to someone like Harklight it was immediately noticeable. Out of place, unwanted, obvious. Imperfect. Those words made the soldier feel uneasy, so before even unpacking what few possessions he had, Harklight was standing on a chair scrubbing at the offending stain on the ceiling.

Everything about it annoyed him.

The fact that he had to move his bed to reach it, that no matter how hard he scrubbed it refused to budge. He'd tried different treatments, even harsh chemicals usually reserved for kataphrakt maintenance - of course only after checking with a bemused technician that the materials lining the inside of the base wouldn't be damaged by such corrosive products. He recalled how the smell lingered for days, hanging onto the air in his room despite the extra programs run on the oxygen recycling unit. A week later, he'd been no longer sure if it was the odour itself or the memory of it that continued to plague him. Efforts to eradicate the stain occupied his mind whenever he was alone or couldn't sleep, the fixation misplaced yet comforting.

As the annoyance persisted, Harklight had tried out different tactics. When he woke up one evening, worried about a meeting he would mediate the next day, the unwanted guest looked down at him, jeering. Rather than attempt another full on chemical offensive, he decided to rearrange his furniture to obscure it. Even if he couldn't remove it, he rationalised, he could at least avoid looking at it. He cycled through the different combinations, placements, and directions the three bulky pieces of furniture in his small room would allow in order to minimize how often his gaze could inadvertently fall on the stain. With his bed against the opposing wall, head facing away from the corner, his wardrobe beneath it, and desk at an angle where he would always sit with his back to it, Harklight felt satisfied with the fact that in order to register the stain, he needed to consciously direct his attention to it - and with so many other tasks to focus his attention on, there was no need to expend any more energy on something that was clearly out of his control.

That night Harklight drifted soundly back to sleep feeling markedly pleased with himself, and had remained that way every night since.

 

Now, lying stiff on his bed once more, the stain seemed to linger in the corner of his vision no matter where he looked. Once abandoned questions frustrated him again: Was it a manufacturing fault? A sign of wear, bad upkeep? A flaw inherent in the material or a human error in handling?

Sweat ran down the back of his neck, collecting uncomfortably in the creases of his uniform collar.

There was nothing textural that revealed the nature of the anomaly. No scratches, bumps, damaged grain to differentiate it from the polished finish of the walls. It was clearly part of the material, which most likely ruled out external intervention.

It was just a tarnished spot. Dull, darkened, and resistant. It wasn't going to vanish at his own convenience, and if he couldn't figure out what it was, he would have to learn to live with it.

His hands contorted into fists where nails dug into skin, the bedsheets apprehensive of impending drawn blood.

And then, out of sight, out of reach, it unfolded, revealed. It was paint peeling off the walls of a child’s bedroom that a mother can no longer bear to enter, it was burnt dead skin flaking, awkward and raw.

Out of place, unwanted. Obvious. The painful reality of his situation.

Harklight felt sick to his stomach, his hands twitching in the bedsheets, back arching and hips lifting in search of a release he could never allow.

Or could he?

_It's a natural physical reaction_ , he told himself, _anyone would feel this way, in these circumstances. It's nothing to do with him. It's not going away because I haven't had any time for myself in months, haven't thought about having someone close to me in too long, of course I'd get like this if anyone were to -_

The sound of water echoed still, threatening to drown him out, dragging him down to the place where fantasies cross over to reality. Too loud to be ignored, too true to be forgotten. Water pounding against a glass pane, against skin, to the rhythm of soft gasps, moans, and “Ah, Harklight, please!”

_There's no point in delaying it. If I just get this over and done with, I'll feel better. It's just relief.  It doesn't mean anything. No one has to know. It's nothing to do with him. Nothing to do with him, nothing to do with me being there, with what I saw, what I heard -_

Thought stumbled in the relay of will to movement, tripped up by fear. Fear raced ahead, Harklight's body limp in its grasp, forgetting the man it was afraid to lose laid abandoned with the feelings it kicked to the gutter. One moment it reached for a watch to tell the time, worried about lack of sleep, duties, anything that could bring forward a tomorrow where desire had long been left behind. The next it was dancing with a slender figure, a body all too sharp and sculpted to account for the beauty it radiated. This fixation drew fear and excitement closer together, too fast and hot and terrifying. All too different from the learned pleasure of curves and warm softness, now replaced by raw alabaster angles, fragile skin contending with a jutting carved hip bone, calling for larger hands to pull it close and hold it painfully tight.

Everything tenses, and blood rushes to areas long neglected.

All too familiar, the breathing gasping creature trapped his fear like a mirror, as if to say "don't be afraid, come closer. I'm just like you. I am you. I'm what you long for."

"This isn't who I am," Harklight pleaded to nothing, an audience born from confusion, "this isn't who - what - I want!"

Silence laughed back. "Who are we," they suggest, "to tell you any of these things?"

"That's right," thought Harklight, "No one has to know. I don't have to do anything about this. It'll pass, and I'll stop thinking about him."

Fear landed safely on the cusp of denial. As Harklight relaxed, the warm synthetic fabric of his uniform and bed became unbearable, a constricting reminder of the past minutes, or hours (how long had it been?) spent at war with memories that should simply be forgotten. He shot up, panting, pain and nausea coursing through him screaming for something different.

_Change. I have to get changed._

His movement first jarred, then slugged, Harklight stumbled over to his bathroom cubicle.

_Just get your clothes off and you'll be able to breathe. Breathe. It's just too hot in here. Maybe the air conditioner is broken._

Clothes somehow found their way to the ground, and Harklight stood hunched, propped up against the edge of his bathroom sink. Cool air kissed his skin, sending shivers down his tense spine. Relaxation washed over him once more. He dared to acknowledge the image in the mirror in front of him: forlorn, sweating, hair both sticking to skin and out in every direction. The threat of a five o'clock shadow creeping across his jaw.

_I'm a mess._

This would not do. A quick mental check, run through of tasks to be completed the next day, and his evening routine was back on track. His internal metronome began to tick again, anticipating the rhythm to follow from one beat to the next: first fold clothes to be washed, have a warm shower, prepare uniform and workout clothes for the next day. Nothing was out of order, the shower water at the right temperature.

The water. The sound of the water, over and over again. His world was spinning in smaller and smaller circles. Sounds of twisted desperate longing, sounds he'd never wanted to hear, sounds yearning for him that were over but somehow couldn't stop. Sounds morphing to shapes, a boiling naked body escaping from an unchecked volcanic fissure on some reclusive facet of the mind.

_Fuck. My head hurts. And I..._

Then the memory was everywhere. When Harklight tried to breathe there was a smaller all too familiar body pressed against his own. When he closed his eyes, dangerous hands ghosted over him, hesitant, alluring, anchoring themselves to him while a mop of blonde hair nestled against his chest.

_... I have an erection. Again._

Everything inside him heaved towards the general direction of the toilet.

The bitter taste of this realisation permeated every inch of his being, shaking through limbs he barely managed to cradle himself with after sinking to the ground. All physical strength gone, it became too difficult to deny the path his mind was beginning to wander.

_Why am I doing this to myself?_

Nothing came to mind, a blank reflection of the walls containing him against which running water's weight collided and echoed.

_Oh yes the shower_ , he attempted to reason _, I need a shower. I feel disgusting._

Disgust, ally of shame, control and perfectionism, stood at the doors to his desire tall, and armed with piercing rationality. Yet as he glanced back to the shower, Harklight's humanity protested. Once more, faint cries of "why are you doing this?" beckoned him to the side of his beloved Lord. Stolen moments of intimacy underscored by the low hum of scars, the bold and bright vulnerability of a genial, exhausted young man sketched into the dust on the walls of his forsaken heart - moments spewed forth, threatened to burst out of the prison cell he had stubbornly confined them to, offering the promise of a bitter pleasure laced with pain in exchange for their release.

He thought of his recent blunders, of the gracious acceptance Lord Troyard had shown him, of the rare and genuine gift of laughter that had eased his embarrassment back over into the camaraderie filling the ever shortening gap between them. Harklight's chest tightened, as the long repressed ache pushed forward what he never dared acknowledge was really dear to him. His stomach lurched once more, unsettled by the assault these feelings carried out on his body.

Water rolled louder on the drum of glass, cracking through silent lies like thunder.

It hurt. It hurt Harklight like nothing ever had before. It ripped through flimsy paper doors of denial and tore apart contracts certified only by the rigid stamps of discipline and expectation.

Nothing came close, could even dare compare to what Lord Troyard meant to him.

Where past experiences had been curious infatuations, tentative kisses and touches ending only in dull disappointment, this feeling was intoxicating. It wasn't the sickening sweetness of honey coated words that fed superficial attraction; admiration misplaced from military to man, from ideals to prospective partner. It was ugly and sharp and complicated, angled into impossible corners, into the deepest recesses of two minds and a relationship where it couldn't fit, but it did, and it hurt.

Where women had been logical, inevitable, a natural progression from teenage years to adulthood, a man was inconceivable, impossible. Yet so are feelings, and desires, and it is only human to challenge what you are now with the test of what you could be. This feeling was the pain of opening up to someone, of giving everything without realising that the pieces you have lost are now owned by another who may never return your feelings in exchange for parts of their own. It was the need to protect, to support, nurture, to heal where another had hit hard and broken something of unspeakable beauty into many more shards, amplifying the light first reflected in it a hundred times over.

It was blinding, so Harklight's eyes fluttered closed to hide the sight.

Then amidst the pain flared an excited spark of hope. It crept down his spine, breathing in stuttered gasps, moaning "Harklight, please, ah - Harklight!" from his memory.

Slaine Troyard filled his mind, a body slender and forbidden. A body which had called out a name, his name, while seeking the pleasure Harklight worked so hard to deny himself.

Resignation guided a hand down in between his legs. Harklight felt high, debilitated, drunk on feelings and arousal confusing themselves and growing stronger, more dangerous, when mixed. His own touch was like new as he wrapped a hand around his shaft, cock hard and need desperate. He was still alert enough to notice how easily his thumb slipped over the tip, coated and slick with precum, making it all too easy to shiver and moan at the images that played behind his eyelids.

His Lord had been naked in the shower. Like him, he had run a hand over his cock, jerked and craved for friction and pleasure. What sounds would he have made if Harklight had been there, holding him up, kissing the crook of his neck and whispering to him how much he deserved this, how good he would feel if he let Harklight look after him. He imagined biting into the pale skin before him and unconsciously bit down hard on his own lip, almost drawing blood. As his wrist moved faster, he grabbed a discarded piece of clothing and bit down on that instead, hard, muffling his own moans as if someone could overhear how wild he sounded just at the thought of his superior writhing and panting beneath him.

He came suddenly at the thought and oh so hot, spilling over into his palm and holding back a cry of a name he was still too afraid to say out loud in this way.

And it was over. The moment of lucidity and contentment that follows climax washed over Harklight with terror. He stepped into the shower and mechanically cleaned off, dazed and distant. There was nowhere for him to go from here, only uncharted territory in which he wasn't sure he could survive. Pickets went up one by one, erected by each scenario and possible negative consequence that crossed his mind. He didn't want to think, but he couldn't help himself. It was impossible. When he passed by the mirror on his way out of the bathroom he vaguely registered the vacant look in his own eyes, uncharacteristic and far too telling.

That would have to be fixed by morning.

His barriers still standing strong, his momentary desire for the beautiful, stubborn, fragile, and inaccessible Lord relegated to the subconscious, Harklight fell asleep before having to deal with the troubling compromise he had made with his own crafted identity.

After all, he was in complete control - and why worry about things no one else can see?


End file.
